Deep Until I'm in the arms of Sleep
by megyal
Summary: Harry and Draco have problems sleeping; 'Final year' AU.


**Notes:** Written for my friend JB, who asked for _post-Hogwarts angst....maybe going back to school to finish seventh year_. Title from the Endeverafter song, _Tip of My Tongue_.  
**Warnings:** Angst; Ginny; (I know that's a warning for some people); mentions of violence.

* * *

**Deep until I'm in the arms of sleep**

Draco woke up feeling as if someone had danced a very rowdy jig on his bed while he had been lying in it. His eyes felt heavy and crusted over in a very un-Malfoylike manner and he made a face as he plucked at his eyelashes with his finger and thumb.

It was all very disgusting. His mouth was dry and he felt wrong in his body, as if it was an ill-fitting cloak. He looked down at his half-naked frame after he swung his legs out of the rumpled covers and set his feet on the thick green carpet. His body looked fine. Pale thighs and knees, perfectly normal in their long thin way; he leaned over a little to inspect his feet, which were large and narrow and bony. They looked just the same.

So why did he feel so wrong? Well... not really wrong, just out of sorts.

"Get hold of yourself," he muttered. "Man up."

"That's the spirit, dear," the mirror soothed from over his dresser. "What are we talking about?"

"Nothing. Be quiet."

The mirror said, "No, I _won't_ be quiet. You're very rude and I won't have it."

Draco shook his head and let out a long exhale, hands at the sides of his legs, gripping the edges of the bed. Maybe it was something he ate last night. He would not be surprised if one of the Gryffinwhores had slipped something into his drink. He would not put it past their unimaginative, self-satisfied natures at all.

The mirror was rambling cheerfully through a range of topics, from how lovely this surprisingly sunny Saturday was, to Upper Seventh Quidditch team (how did mirrors find out about those things?), to what shirt Draco was going to wear. He got up with a small groan, meaning to find a shirt to throw over the loquacious surface when he caught sight of himself.

"Oh, well. This isn't good," the mirror murmured as Draco blinked at his reflection. He raised his left arm, the Mark on it faded to an ugly rash of ink and burnt flesh... but that wasn't the _only_ reason it was faded.

He also could see right through himself.

He turned his head slowly, and saw his body still sitting on the side of the bed, head bent so that the long blond fringe of hair covered his eyes. His body was swaying slightly and Draco watched in a kind of growing horror as his body flopped back onto the surface of the bed, fingers twitching.

"No," the mirror confirmed. "Not good at all."

*

As Draco stood staring at his own body, Harry was stationed outside the entrance to the Slytherin dormitory... or, in any case, what he _hoped_ was the entrance. He hadn't been down here in a long time.

He leaned against the opposite wall and waited. It was fairly early still and it was Saturday; only students like Hermione were already up, reading in their Common Rooms or placing the freshly cleaned and folded uniforms back in their trunks, ready for the coming week. Harry usually just tumbled his uniforms into his trunk, and ended up looking rumpled every day after. But they had them on under their robes, so who cared?

He felt the stone wall gather more cold from the crisp October air and press it into his back, chilling the backs of his ribs through his thin t-shirt. He felt his fingers tremble and he clenched both fists, but that didn't stop the shaking.

Harry was exhausted to the point of tears, but he wasn't going to leave until he saw Malfoy. Just make sure that he was fine, and that Harry wasn't going crazy.

Then he could stagger back to the Gryffindor tower and chase the rest that had been eluding him since the night of the Battle at Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, the last honest sleep he could remember was the morning after that terrible night; Ron and he had slept in the same bed; he had just put on his pajamas in the middle of the morning, curling against Ron when he had crawled in with Harry. Ron's body had been solid and warm, one arm hand wrapped around Harry's shoulder and Harry had thought, "Alright, this is great," right before he had fallen into a sleep that was wonderfully dreamless.

That was the last time he had slept like that. Since then, he had been plagued with a persistent insomnia: he would go to sleep just fine, and a few hours later, he would snap awake, as if someone _shoved_ his mind into awareness. He was tired all the time, and cranky to boot; nearly all of his current arguments with Ginny stemmed from his lassitude and her seemingly boundless energy. She had even accused him of cheating, of all things, to which Harry had snapped, "Oh, don't be fucking stupid."

They had both blinked at each other, shocked at what he'd said, until Ginny had twisted her mouth to one side and he had offered a grudging apology.

It had been accepted in very much the same manner.

Last night had been the worst, however.... and the absolute _strangest_.

*

He had been shoved awake again, and even with Seamus' guaranteed sleep-remedy running through his system ("Honey and Ogden's, Harry, it'll knock yer brains out, _guaranteed_"), he had lain in bed trying to go back to sleep. After an hour of restless twisting and turning, he had slipped out of bed, sticking his wand in the large pockets of his night-robe before pulling it on; he put his smaller feet into Ron's massively warm slippers and padded downstairs.

"Going for little walk, love?" The Fat Lady had murmured sympathetically as she had swung open for him. For the past couple of weeks, she had let him out, even walking with him a little way through other paintings. "Did you try the Dreamless Sleep?"

"I've been taking too much of it," Harry answered flatly, shuffling down the corridor. The Fat Lady walked into a portrait depicting a grey seaside and clapped a hand over her large hat before it could blow away. "I don't want to get too addicted."

He stopped for a moment and yawned mightily, barely covering his mouth with his hand. Through watering eyes, he peered that the concerned round face of the Fat Lady. "I'll be fine, you can go back."

She threw him a look that was half-reluctant and half-offended, but she exited the frame in the direction of the Gryffindor dorms.

Harry had meandered through darkened halls, not bothering to set up a _Lumos_ as yet. He found himself on those corridors that had one side open to the great outdoors, and he did cast a quick warming spell over himself, because the air coming through the tall pointed arches was bitingly crisp.

"Oy," he had said sternly when he'd stumbled over a boy from Hufflepuff and a girl from Gryffindor, tucked into an alcove. The bright light from his now blazing wand-tip fell over their flushed faces and they had squinted, trying to see who it was that had caught them. "Get back to your dorms."

"You're not a prefect," the girl had shot back saucily. She was in fourth year now, he thought her name might be Lucille, but she was a chatty pain in the arse, as far as he could remember through her habit of tormenting Ginny with questions. Ginny thought she was doing it just to get Harry's attention.

"No," Harry retorted. "Consider me your friendly neighbourhood prophylactic." He'd learned that word from Hermione that morning, and was kind of pleased that his tired brain could have dredged it up. "Go to bed."

"But... Mr. Potter. Harry," the Huffleboy boy stammered, obviously unnerved after being discovered snogging in a dark corner by the Boy who Lived Twice. "You're... you're not supposed to be walking about at nights, either."

Harry gave them both a disbelieving glare and opened his mouth, but they scuttled off, probably thinking that he was going to hex them, or something. The mood he was in, he probably would have.

He turned back to continue on his path, extinguishing his _Lumos_; then he stopped short, his breath whistling quickly through his nose as he inhaled sharply.

There was a strange ghost standing at the other end of the corridor, nearly at the point where it turned and opened up to the outside. All he could really see was its silvery outline shimmering in the shadows, barely there in the dark. It was swaying slightly and looking directly at him. It was too slender to be Sir Nicholas or the Bloody Baron or even the Fat Friar, and obviously too male to be the Grey Lady.

It took a slow step towards him and Harry stepped back, his hand gripping his wand.

"Peeves?" he said, trying to sound firm, but the ghost wasn't acting like a normal ghost. It insisted on stepping slowly towards him instead of floating, moving in jerky fits like a rusty machine. "Myrtle?"

The only response was a low humming sort of moan, the sound of which caused the hair on Harry's arms and the back of his neck to rise up. How did one defend against a ghost? If Hermione was here, she'd know. Maybe some sort of spell that mimicked the petrifying glare of a Basilisk.

"Harry," the ghost said, mournfully. Harry was transfixed; he couldn't move. "Harry."

"Yes?" Harry whispered. "Who... Sirius? Are you Sirius?"

"No."

There was a long silence, and the ghost did not stir except for a slight waver. Why was it standing on the ground, and not floating like a regular ghost? Harry was just about to ask it why; then the ghost stepped slowly out into the soft glowing curtain of moonlight, and Harry's question shriveled in his throat, only releasing a strangled sound.

Draco Malfoy stood there, clutching himself as if he was freezing cold. Harry saw the hallway through him, but what was more terrifying was Malfoy's face. It looked positively skeletal, and there was a gash on his cheek, a flap of flesh hanging down. His eyes bulged and rolled. This was terrible; he had seen Malfoy just this past morning, brooding over his breakfast at the sparsely populated Slytherin table. What had _happened_?

"Oh god," Harry finally managed to whisper, and Malfoy stared at him with hollow, burning eyes. "Oh, god."

The ghost of Malfoy smiled, a horrible show of shattered teeth, and then faded away. Harry spun around, ready to race down to the Slytherin dungeons and took a deep breath to shriek in terror as Malfoy's broken face appeared not six inches away from his own. His cry was choked off when cold hands slipped around his throat, squeezing.

"No!" He tried to peel the fingers from around his neck, dropping his wand, but his fingers scraped at his own skin. His vision began to swim as his air was cut off by those phantom fingers. "No," he said, or _tried_, but he couldn't get out a word.

"My lord and master wants to kill you," the ghost of Malfoy intoned. "I'll make sure you're dead. Then we'll be alright. We'll be alright."

Harry twisted and stumbled back when Malfoy released him suddenly, landing heavily on his back and knocking his head quite painfully on the stone floor. He tried to say, "Voldemort is _dead_," but Malfoy swooped down on him, lips drawn back from his ruined teeth in a snarl and Harry blacked out.

He had come to in what seemed to be few moments later, but he could hear the call of early morning birds, and see his surroundings bathed by a pre-dawn glow. His neck felt raw and bruised and he swallowed painfully. He got to his knees and then managed to stand up, his head spinning. He gazed around briefly; no sign of Malfoy.

Harry had grimly made his way to the dungeons, where he now waited with growing impatience for the door to open, for someone to come out so that he could investigate. Suppose... suppose something had happened to Malfoy in the night? He could be lying in his bed, pale and still and alone.

He was just going to start making a ruckus when someone said, in familiar tones dripping with silky contempt, "Mr. Potter. Perhaps you could explain your presence down here so early on a Saturday morning?"

Harry stepped away from the wall he had been leaning on and turned around; he craned his head up and saw Snape peering at him distrustfully out of a wide painting which contained a strange scene of some rainforest. He looked very incongruous there, his long black robes brushing against the massive painted ferns.

"I want to see Malfoy," Harry rasped back and Snape's eyebrows raised in skepticism.

"Malfoy? Haven't you all tormented the poor boy enough?" Snape sneered at him, and Harry was about to frown when he saw the taunting light gleaning in the professor's painted eyes. Even as a portrait, there was nothing Snape liked to do more than rile Harry up.

Harry said, through gritted teeth, "He hasn't been through _enough_ torment. I just need to talk to him."

"Then you shall have to wait," Snape informed him, and sailed out of the portrait. His voice, however, trailed back. "Although, our young Malfoy has a tendency to lie in nearly all day on the weekends. I'm sure you'll be here for some time."

"Just tell him I'm out here!" Harry yelled, feeling his sore throat twinge. "You can do even _that_."

"Certainly not," Snape returned shortly. "I've done enough for you and your kind," and he said nothing more, even as Harry leaned back against the wall and seethed.

*

Draco was just lying carefully back down into his own body for about the third time, _finally_ feeling it clasp around him like a well-fitted cloak, when Professor Snape strode into the painting of the Malfoy Manor hanging over his bed.

"Draco," he said in that icy way which meant he was concerned about something. A painted peacock, whiter than the real ones ever could be, came to stand next to him. Snape glared down at it before returning his attention to Draco. "What is the matter with you?"

_My body keeps slipping off_, Draco wanted to say in frightened desperation, but he was sitting up alright now, body and all. He wriggled his fingers and pinched his inner arm. He was solid.

"I'm fine now," he told Professor Snape, words clipped. Snape narrowed those dark eyes at him.

"'Now'?"

"There's something odd going on," Draco finally volunteered after a long, tense moment of silence.

"Obviously there is," the professor snapped, "for Harry Potter is skulking around outside, inquiring after your person. And if I know how the mind of a Gryffindor functions, he'll soon be trying to enter by force. Ahh," he said drily, as a loud pounding came from the direction of the entrance to the dungeons. "As predicted."

Draco stood up. "I'll go see what our great Hero wants." He walked as firmly as he could, grabbing his robe as he went out, knowing that the Professor was staring at his back.

*

Harry was taking far too much pleasure in using a widely-cast hammering charm on the wall that led to the Slytherin dorms; he'd learned it when assisting with the Hogwarts' repairs during the summer and was actually slightly disappointed when, after just a few moments of hammering, a rough rectangle was delineated in the stone, and the door which formed swung open quickly.

Malfoy, who was definitely _not_ a ghost, stepped out. He gave Harry a contemptuous stare, but Harry was blinking at him; Malfoy was dressed in a long green robe, like one of the bathrobes Aunt Petunia owned, but instead of being fluffy and pink with large hideous yellow flowers, Malfoy's was silky and masculine.

"What is it," he said flatly to Harry, who shook himself out of his musings and gave Malfoy a hard look. He seemed.... _alive_ enough, all pale skin and sharp eyes. "Why on earth are you beating down the door at this hour?"

"I came to see if you were--" he stopped and touched his throat almost absently. Malfoy's expression went completely blank at that. "I--"

"How wonderfully thoughtful of you," Malfoy said with a scornful curl of his lips. It baffled Harry: really, how could he still be like that when Harry had _saved_ his _life_, not just in that Last Battle, but before the Wizengamot? "As you can see, I'm fine." Malfoy stepped back into the doorway, and then hesitated. "Here." He snapped his wand out before Harry could even move and healed the marks around his neck. The feel of his magic was soothing, like a spoonful of honey, and Harry touched at his throat again, marveling. Malfoy was stepping away again, and the door began to swing shut.

"Wait!" Harry darted forward before the door could close completely; the door grated to a halt, probably possessing a charm which sensed someone in the threshold so it wouldn't slam on them. He stumbled against Malfoy, who caught him by the shoulders and held onto him, looking down in his flushed face. Harry found himself with a double handful of Malfoy's bed-robe. It felt lovely and smooth in his hands; he felt like he could just rest his head on Malfoy's chest... get some sleep...

He jerked back, letting go of Malfoy's robe. Malfoy released him as well, staring at him with unreadable eyes.

Harry took a deep breath. "I saw you last night. In one of the hallways."

Malfoy didn't respond. He simply tucked his arms into the wide sleeves of his robes and continued to watch Harry, his lips a thin line in his face.

"You were like a ghost," Harry said low, and the horror of a few hours ago slid over him. He shuddered. "You were trying to kill me."

"Like so many others, I obviously failed." Malfoy shook his head, tossing his pale hair out of his eyes. "But, you must have been dreaming--"

"No, I wasn't," Harry snapped and Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "You saw the marks on my neck. You know what you did, and I'm--"

"What marks?" Malfoy's smile was sly and nasty. Harry wanted to kick his teeth in. "Go get some sleep, Potter. You really need it."

He placed a hand flat on Harry's chest, meaning to shove him out the door again, but Harry seized his wrist with both hands, holding firm. "Something is _wrong_. Last night, you looked... like someone hurt you. When... when Voldemort was at your house, at the Manor, did he--?"

Malfoy was breathing hard, blinking rapidly as if he was about to cry. Then he smiled again, and there was something so cutting and splintered about it that Harry's grip softened.

"Potter," Malfoy said tonelessly. "To heal the body with magic is very simple. It can be done over and over again. And the same charms which pull flesh together can also be used to slice it apart." He smiled without mirth. "You can go ask your pet brain. In the meantime, whatever problem you think I'm currently having, I'll thank you to keep your bloody nose out of it."

He _did_ shove this time, and Harry went flailing out, almost bouncing against the opposite wall. The stone door slammed into place with a resounding thud.

*

"Hey, 'Mione." Harry crawled onto the long couch as soon as he got back into the Gryffindor common room. Hermione, as he had known, was already up, her curly hair pinned up messily as she held a slim book up in front of her face. She looked up and tugged the thick blanket from where it was tucked underneath her legs, holding it up in invitation. Harry hesitated; he liked snuggling up to his friends, but he was always unsure if he was welcome to do so.

"Hurry up, Harry," Hermione said, a little irritably. "The cold air is coming in."

He tucked against her side immediately, resting his head on her shoulder. She threw the blanket over him too, but not before she spotted Ron's slippers on his feet and snorted in amusement.

"You went walking last night again?" She opened her book again, but he knew she was waiting on his answer.

"Couldn't sleep."

She turned a page, and he realized she was reading up on sleeping aids and charms. Warmth filled him; she would always try on his behalf.

"Hermione," he started again and she hummed in response. "Can there be a ghost if a person isn't dead?"

"In theory, yes," Hermione said absently, turning another page. He saw her hand reach out and trace a long line of faded text and he impatiently poked her in the side when she made no other comment. "Oh! That tickles, Harry!"

"Tell me more, go on," Harry urged.

"Once upon a time, I would have given all I had, just to hear you and Ron say that about our schoolwork," she sighed dramatically and Harry rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. Haven't you ever heard about astral projection?"

Harry stared blankly at her.

"Oh, you haven't."

"No, I have. It's just that... my brain is really tired, sometimes it can't find second gear." He pursed his lips. "I've heard about it, though."

"Right, so if it exists in the Muggle world, it must be a fairly common issue in the Wizarding one, since Wizards have access to their natural magic and are able to do the more improbable things. Some persons have claimed to leave their bodies when they were asleep, or dreaming. There's this book called _The Bright Light_ but J. Pursestring--"

Harry's brain automatically began to screen out Hermione's voice, a force of habit made strong by over seven years of practice; however, he struggled to focus, because there might be something important in this.

"There might be something important in this," he actually muttered out loud and Hermione stopped in the middle of explaining the difference between etheric and astral projection, eyebrows raised high. Harry sighed. "Last night, when I couldn't sleep, I went walking and I saw Malfoy's ghost. But he's not dead," he hastened to assure as her eyes went round and her mouth fell open. "But I know I saw a ghost. It... touched me, I felt it."

"Probably it was a ghost that happened to _look_ like Malfoy," Hermione said, but her voice was quite doubtful. "And it touched you? His ghost actually touched you?"

Harry nodded, and refrained from outlining what kind of touching it really was; he thought deeply, letting his tired brain tick over with a kind of gauzy slowness. "I think he went walking, too," he finally said softly, and leaned his head against Hermione's shoulder. "I think he went walking in his dreams."

*

Draco was actually _afraid_ to go to sleep that night. He'd spent all day wrapped up in bed, listening to the muffled sounds of young Slytherins pounding up and down the stairs. Last night, terrible images had marched through his mind, memories of Voldemort at the Manor. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to _not_ think about the maddeningly sly cast of those red eyes, long grey fingers stroking against his cheek.

The Dark Lord had said he had treasured Draco's screams most of all. Perversely, Draco refused to scream for him... or, at least, he tried very had not to. There was only so much pride he had, and sometimes it ran dry under pressure.

He sighed and turned over in his bed. A house-elf had popped into his room earlier today, ready to strip it and place fresh sheets. It had stared at Draco with large eyes, eyes twitching in dismay.

"Is Malfoy moving?" it had finally asked, tremulously.

"No," Draco told it shortly. "Malfoy is definitely _not_ moving."

It had actually sighed before popping back out again, and Draco had rolled onto his back, watching the light change on the stone. The dungeons were not as far underground as most of the other students thought. There were windows positioned the very top of his wall, near the ceiling. Outside, those windows were a few feet above the level of the lake, and the sunlight on the water reflected bright diamonds of light on the bare ceiling and walls. Draco watched them, and thought about the water in the pond back home.

When he was very small, he would race down the slight slope of the back lawns to the large pond, skipping unsteadily along the ring of stones that lined the edge. He would see pale flashes of fin, the platinum _ogon_ that his mother loved so much, and would stick his tiny hands to try and stroke them.

His father had caught him at it once, and had swung him high up in the air, squealing.

"Don't torment your mother's koi," his father had rumbled, tucking him close and striding back to the large manor. "Or your mother shall torment _me_." Draco had giggled helplessly nearly all the way, holding onto the wide lapel of his father's robe with one hand, the other grasping the long blond braid his father favoured when at home.

Draco thought about his father's hair, now cut short at the nape as the style better suited for prisoners and swallowed hard.

*

"What are we supposed to be looking for?" Ron whispered loudly and Ginny poked him in the side, shushing him while Harry frowned. "What. What?!"

They were all standing at the foot of the staircase that led to the tower, waiting on Hermione to come down. Harry had told Ron and Ginny about his theory, and both had insisted they come along whatever investigation he and Hermione were planning.

"Just keep an eye out for anything strange," Hermione said as she finally descended. "If Malfoy is leaving his body in his dreams, then we can do something to help."

"What _can_ we do?" Ginny asked, her eyebrows drawn together in concern. Harry looked at her carefully, and smiled a little when she glanced at him. "I mean, he'd be out of his body, how could we get him back?"

"There's always a way," Ron said firmly and held Hermione's hand, giving her a very soft smile. "We'll find a way to do it, whether that git likes it or not. Can't have Slytherins running around bodyless, can we?"

Harry snorted in amusement and squeezed Ginny's hand when it slipped into his own and they set off. They walked from floor to floor, talking in low voices about random things; they didn't stumble on any students in darkened alcoves, much to Harry's relief. Also, the company was kind of nice. Instead of just him by his lonesome, wandering in search of sleep, he had his friends beside him.

He was just about to tell them this, maybe get teased a little for being so sentimental, when Ron stopped short and peered down a dark corridor which branched off from the main passage-way.

"Did you hear that?" He turned and looked at the rest of them, eyes wide in the light of Hermione's lumos. "I thought I heard--"

A light giggle floated out of the corridor and Harry felt Ginny's hand squeeze his almost painfully. They stopped and the laughter, sweet and musical, came again.

"Who is that?" Harry called softly. "Who's there?"

"Me!" a little voice piped up; something very small and wraithlike raced out of the corridor. Before Harry could jump out of the way, he felt something slam against his legs, clutching tightly. He wasn't thrown off his feet, however, for whatever it was apparently did not mean to knock him over.

Harry gazed down. A tiny ghost-boy stood there, grinning up at him as he hugged Harry's legs. He was cute, with large eyes and a mop of straight, light hair. The little boy let go and jumped around in the manner of a small goat, seemingly unable to contain himself in random glee.

The little boy was twirling in circles when Harry managed to ask, "What's your name?"

"Draco!" the boy chirped and raced off with his arms spread wide, little legs pumping underneath his short, embroidered robe. "Draco! Draco Malfoooooyyy!" He reached one end of the corridor and returned just as briskly. He bent down and began to hop around them like a frog; when Harry laughed aloud at this, he laughed too, but still hopped and went "Ribbit! Ribbit!"

"This is Draco as a little boy," Hermione said wonderingly. "He's so young! Almost a baby, still."

"No, not a baby!" Little spirit-Draco refuted and tumbled, rolling head over heels. Harry darted towards him without thinking, bending to help him stand. The little boy smiled and tumbled again. Harry shook his head.

"Pity he didn't grow up this nice," Ron said and everyone gaped as the little boy suddenly tried to clamber up Harry's legs, attempting to climb him like a tree. Harry was at a complete loss, while Draco gave up and made pleading sounds, holding his arms up to Harry and clenching his little fists plaintively. Ron's lips twisted. "Well. Go on, Harry, pick him up before he starts crying."

Harry threw him a look of surprise, but knelt and held his arms open. Draco immediately came forward, slinging his arms around Harry's neck and holding tightly when Harry stood. He felt like... a solid cloud, Harry thought as the little boy rest his head on Harry's shoulder, sighing deeply.

"Sleepy," he murmured. "Draco sleepy."

"Does Draco want us to carry him back to bed?" Ginny asked in a soothing voice, a far cry from her harsh yelling when she was training with the Quidditch team or arguing with Harry.

Harry felt Draco's head move as he leaned out a little to stare at Ginny, before letting it fall again on Harry's shoulder.

"Yes. Sleepy," he answered and Harry hitched him up a little on his hip. One of Draco's small ethereal hands was curling into the hair at the back of his neck and tugging, but not enough to hurt. Apparently he just liked to hold onto hair, but Harry wasn't sure if it was a baby thing or a Malfoy thing. Harry watched as he stuck his other thumb in his mouth, and his eyelids blinked slowly.

Hermione sighed dramatically. "I suppose we're to bring him to bed."

"So that someone could tuck him in?" Ron scoffed and made a face when Hermione pinched the back of his hand. Harry heard the baby mutter in his arms and held him close. He was so small; it was hard reconciling this small, affectionate little boy with the tall, pale young man who had perfected the art of the blank stare since they had returned to school. He walked very carefully with him, heading towards the staircase that twisted down into the dungeons.

Snape slid into a painting of a maze on one of the landings, staring at them over his large nose. His eyes fixed on the young Draco and Harry could have sworn that the harsh lines of his face went soft.

"We need to put him to bed," Ginny said even before the professor opened his mouth. Snape acted as if he wasn't going to say anything anyway; he simply inclined his head and followed them right to the Slytherin dormitories, flitting from scene to scene until they had arrived.

"The presence of so many Gryffindors is unwarranted... and unwelcome, if the truth must be known." Snape's mouth curled at them as they waited in front of the hidden entrance; Hermione rolled her eyes. "You may all depart, so that Potter may enter and put Draco back with his physical form."

"Oh for--" Ginny started, exasperated, but Harry stepped away, nodding.

"It's alright. I'll just... leave him, I guess."

Hermione stepped forward and stroked Harry's hair away from his face, looking right into his eyes. She smiled a little, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she turned her head, and actually kissed Draco's chubby cheek as well.

"Good night," she said softly.

"Night," Draco replied in that small, adorable voice, trying to snuggle even closer to Harry's chest.

Ron touched Harry's shoulder, and then petted the bright fall of Draco's hair hesitantly. The little boy shifted, but muttered his farewell again. Ginny kissed Harry on the side of his mouth, looked at the ghostly child in his arms, and turned away.

"Now that we've all bid farewell," Snape said drily as soon as the others departed, "The password is _fortis_."

"Fortis," Draco repeated drowsily before Harry could do it, and the line of the door appeared as before, sliding open to admit them.

"Draco's room is the last at the end of the corridor on the left," Snape informed him. "I leave him to your tender care."

Harry was about to turn around and respond with something witty, but his brain refused to assist. Besides, he had never considered himself particularly witty before, so he simply followed instructions and ended up at a solid door, green letters emblazoned in green at his eye-level: _D.A.L.M_.

He wondered what the _A_, since the _L_ was probably after Malfoy Sr.; he shrugged, turned the shiny knob and pushed open the door. The room was smaller than he had expected, containing just a single bed, with the requisite hangings and the large trunk at the foot of it. A desk was in a corner, slightly messy and Harry saw doodles on scrap pieces of parchment as he stepped close. A Wizarding portrait, small and framed, stood sentinel at a bedside table. Malfoy's parents peered suspiciously out of the portrait at him as he drew the rich material which curtained Malfoy's bed.

The moonlight which struggled through the narrow, high windows streamed over the still body in the bed. Harry stared at his thin face, the sharp nose and chin, the shadows under his eyes. The duvet was pulled up only to his chest and the slope of his pale shoulders was very smooth. He set the child on the bed; the little boy clambered over towards Malfoy, but turned quickly when Harry began to back away.

"Where you goin'?" he asked, eyes wide. He seemed to be fading, but Harry could still make out his fretful expression. "I want you to stay with me."

"I can't," Harry said and Draco pouted. Harry hadn't known that one's upper lip could go out so much. "Alright. I'll stay for a bit."

He toed off his slippers and climbed up, settling gingerly beside the little boy and the still young man. Draco patted him lightly on the arm, leaned forward to give him a smacking kiss on his cheek and then lay down on his side, beaming up at Harry.

"Night, Harry." He grinned and closed his eyes. Harry watched as his smile faded and he rolled over restlessly, disappearing right into Malfoy's lanky frame. Malfoy started, turning his head from side to side and Harry put his hand on his chest, concerned.

Malfoy grabbed onto his wrist desperately and drew Harry close. Still asleep, he folded his arms around Harry, and took a deep breath.

For a long while, Harry lay there, stiff with shock. He began to relax in increments, the muscles of his shoulders losing that bunched feeling. Malfoy's breathing was regular, and his room was quiet; Harry felt comfortably warm and he relaxed even more, not even startled when Malfoy's hand threaded into his hair and stayed there. He wasn't going to sleep, anyway, so.... he could just lie here, quietly, make sure Malfoy was alright and then leave very early in the morning.

That was a good plan.

*

Harry woke up slowly. Someone was hugging him tightly, and he felt safe and warm. He had been _asleep_; the person who was holding him murmured thickly. Something hard pressed against his thigh.

Confused, Harry opened his eyes and blinked at how close Malfoy was, so close that Harry could see how his pale eyelashes curled, and the individual hairs in his eyebrows. These blond eyebrows drew together and Malfoy opened his eyes and fixed a bemused stare on Harry.

They lay there face to face, not saying a word. Then Harry blushed as he realized just what was hard and pressing against him; he was about to say something, to explain, when Malfoy leaned forward and pressed his lips against Harry's.

Harry inhaled quickly. Part of his mind was flailing about in dismay, and another part was worrying over morning breath; when Malfoy's tongue slid across his lower lip, Harry actually jerked as if he had been pinched and Malfoy drew back. His eyes shuttered and Harry _really_ didn't know what he was doing; but one moment he was staring at Malfoy in surprise and the next, he was leaning forward, cupping Malfoy's chin with one hand and kissing him clumsily. Malfoy's mouth opened immediately beneath his, hands fluttering over Harry's old shirt. He tugged at the bottom of it and Harry was a little surprised to find himself nearly sprawled fully on top of Malfoy; he had to sit up, straddling Malfoy so his shirt could be yanked off.

Malfoy slung a long arm around his neck and dragged him down again, kissing him roughly on the mouth before moving on to press his mouth at the curve of Harry's neck. His hand stroked at Harry's bare skin, trailing up his back and over his chest; Harry pressed his hips down, moaning softly as he felt Malfoy's hardness rubbing against his own, precome damp on the clothes still between them.

Malfoy rolled them over again, back to their sides, and there was a flurry as he pulled at Harry's pajama-bottoms, pushing his hand in and holding onto Harry's thickening cock. Harry rocked up into his hand, panting and Malfoy's hand was just a little too--

"Dry," he gasped out and Malfoy removed his hand, licked the palm and got right back to it. Harry was writhing and breathing hard, vaguely wondering if anyone could hear what they were doing in here. Malfoy's breath was hot against his neck and Harry turned his head as he came, bumping his nose into Malfoy's and groaning heavily against his mouth.

He felt boneless and weak, but not too far gone to not notice Malfoy quietly bringing himself off. He went up on one elbow, almost flopping back down and put his hand against Malfoy's wrist. Malfoy paused, but Harry didn't look at his face. He kept his gaze fixed on the flushed skin of Malfoy's hard cock, the head of it shiny with Harry's own come. He touched Malfoy's fingers, which uncurled and moved so that Harry could wrap his own in their place.

Harry looked up at his low moan, nervous. "Do I..?" he whispered, and began to stroke. Malfoy was staring right at him, lips parted and eyes half-lidded. He licked his lips and Harry leaned forward again, kissing him deeply and pumping his wrist, even though his arm was getting a little tired. Malfoy came louder than he did, gripping onto Harry's shoulders and saying something in a harsh voice, but Harry didn't hear exactly what it was.

He wiped his hand on Malfoy's bed-covers, blushing at the thought of the house-elves wondering what that particular stain was. Then again, they were cleaning boys' sheets for years; more than likely, this didn't faze them.

"Um," he said and Malfoy rolled onto his back, staring up on the underside of the canopy. Harry had never felt so horribly out of place in his life. "I should go."

"Did you sleep well last night?" Malfoy asked flatly as Harry located his shirt and pulled it on. He turned his head and gave him a long stare.

Harry bit his lower lip. "Yes. Very well. Did you?"

Malfoy was looking right into his eyes as he said, "It was the best night I ever had. It felt like being home again."

Harry stared at him and then knelt back onto bed, feeling something curl into a tight ball of _want_ as Malfoy went up on his elbows to meet him halfway with a slow kiss, curious and calm and wonderful. Harry touched his face, slid his palms over those shoulders, feeling something dawn slowly inside himself.

Malfoy turned his face away, closing his eyes and Harry pressed his mouth to that sharp cheek.

"I hope you sleep well tonight." His tone had the weight of irrevocability in it and Harry wanted to kiss him again, but stopped.

"You too," he said quietly, slipping off the bed and going towards the door as quickly as he could. He heard Malfoy say something, it might have been his name, said innocently as the little boy said it last night, or in desperation as the dying Draco had, but Harry was moving too fast, through the common room, out the door, fleeing up the stairs and stopping short at the sight of Ginny sitting on the very top step.

She stood and held out her hand, eyes wide and hopeful. He put his hand in hers, feeling how it trembled, and she pulled him away.

_fin_


End file.
